


Of Ballads and Blood

by TwistedGalaxies



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Typical Swearing, Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Monster of the Week, Murder Mystery, One Shot, POV Multiple, Showverse, geraskier if you squint, no beta we die like unsuspecting maids, there's some nasty descriptions of gore in here because murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26483404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedGalaxies/pseuds/TwistedGalaxies
Summary: "Jaskier was playing quite the lovely ditty when yet another blood curdling scream ripped through the crowd. Were it not for the gruesome circumstances, he would have pouted at the interruption, was his music truly that bad?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 38





	Of Ballads and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This fic briefly references the one shot "Flower Crowns and Buttercups" but can be read as a stand alone.

Jaskier clipped his golden buttercup pin to the collar of his doublet, enjoying the feeling of smooth, rose colored silk between his fingers. A flicker of fondness glowed in his chest, not unlike the light of the candle, when he finished fastening the pin. He walked up the wooden steps onto the makeshift stage at the center of the ballroom, his fancy shoes clicking loudly as if to announce his presence. He joined the band upon it and faced a crowd of nobles, all clad in extravagant gowns and silks that would put his own to shame. They looked to him and his ensemble expectantly. Setting his case down and pulling his lute from it, he flashed a grin to his companions and began to play, his voice projecting throughout the room and music flowing from his fingertips like a cool river.

He had been summoned to the manor of one Baron Valentine Alnwick to fulfill a favor his family had long owed the noble. He opted to perform at the noble’s annual spring ball, as one of the performers had cancelled last minute, and this was preferable to the more.. unsavory options of repayment. Not that Jaskier was unfamiliar with such matters, but he wanted to avoid them if necessary. Of course, with company of such high prestige, and Jaskier’s tendency in earlier years to bed every attractive mate he came across, he was able to convince his witcher, Geralt of Rivia to accompany and guard him for the night. It had taken a lot of complaining, begging, and a few unbecoming methods of persuasion to get him to do so, especially with how poorly the incident at Cintra had ended. But alas, Geralt relented and now Jaskier found himself face to face with an adoring crowd, basking in the spotlight and showing off his repertoire of ballads and jigs. Much to his despair he had to avoid the more maudlin of his songs, they were some of his favorites, especially since he had written an absolutely superb piece the previous night.

It didn’t take long to get the crowd going, dancing and clapping along to the beat of the music. After several songs had flowed through his fingertips, Jaskier scanned the crowd and his eyes landed on familiar silver hair. His witcher had decided to spend the night brooding at the back of the ballroom, leaning against the wall with a drink in hand. This, Jaskier decided, would absolutely not do. He descended from the stage and wove his way through the colorful, frenetic crowd to eventually reach Geralt. A look of horror dawned on his face as Jaskier approached, drawing all the attention in the room towards the witcher. What? He could have his fun couldn’t he? He strummed the first few bars of Toss a Coin and Geralt put his head in his hands, a hint of red appearing on the tips of his ears. Jaskier stood up on a nearby table (they had been pushed to the edge of the room and been used for feasting earlier in the night), trying to make himself as visible as possible.

“When a humble bard

Graced a ride along

With Geralt of Rivia

Along came this song~!”

Jaskier drew out the last part, his mouth stretched into a shit eating grin as he beckoned to the crowd to sing along. Geralt let out a groan of anguish as the song continued, the music a loud roar once it hit its climax. He ended the song with a flourish and a low bow, “Thank you for having me tonight, ladies and gentlemen! I regret to inform you that I must take a break, lest my beautiful voice grow strained. In the meanwhile, my fellows will entertain you with some melodies you may be familiar with.” The crowd cheered and the band on stage launched themselves into a jaunty tune. Jaskier turned to the witcher, setting down his lute.

“Bard,” Geralt began, red still dusting his ears, “Why?”

Jaskier dropped down from the table and leaned against it, “Well, you see you just looked so lonely over there in the corner and I didn’t want you to spend all night _brooding_ -” Geralt shot him a glare “- don’t give me that look, I know it’s true, and anyways I needed a reason to get offstage, hours of performing hurts my poor throat, you know.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“Fine,” Jaskier huffed, a smile still playing on the edges of his lips. Geralt’s eyes darted around the room, scanning it. His shoulders looked tense and his fingers were twitching, likely towards some hidden weapon. Jaskier knew that look all too well, had accompanied him on far too many hunts over the years to miss that something was clearly _off_. “What’s wrong?” he asked, getting straight to the point.

“My medallion, it’s-” Geralt was cut off as a shrill scream rang through the manor, silencing the musicians and the assembled guests. He reached towards his silver sword and booked it through the nearby set of double doors, likely to pursue whatever caused the noise. He was followed first by Jaskier (and many whines of protest), then by several guards, and later Baron Valentine himself who had risen from his seat. The group ran through lavishly decorated winding hallways, only to be met with a grisly sight.

A maid - though she was only recognizable by her blood stained uniform, lay on the well carpeted floor, blood pooling around her. Jagged cuts were ripped into her stomach, shredded viscera strewn around her corpse. Her face was all but unrecognizable, bludgeoned into a bloody mess of flesh, hair, and bone shards. Jaskier had to lean against the wall to keep from passing out at the sight, thick bile rising up his throat. He tried to close his eyes to get reprieve from the horrific scene before him but to no avail, it had burned itself into his eyelids. He heard retching behind him, as some of the guards vomited.

“What is the meaning of this?” Baron Valentine roared before turning to face Geralt, “Witcher?”

Geralt swallowed, “It’s not from a beast I recognize. I can’t make out a scent either, nothing distinct through all this blood.”

“Nothing? What use are you then?” Baron Valentine began to walk back to the ballroom, “Guards, clean up this mess, and be sure that no one leaves.” The guards saluted, one tailing the baron presumably to tell the others.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpered, “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” he hummed, likely in contemplation, “You should head back to the ballroom, it’s safer.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest but closed it when Geralt shot him a look that brokered no argument.

Sulking, he walked back to the ballroom, the baron’s retreating figure the only thing keeping him from getting lost in this gods accursed place. Jaskier had never been a fan of vast manors, they’d always seemed cold, empty, their stone walls holding a hollowness rarely filled. As he stepped inside he couldn’t help but notice how the double doors shut with a resounding _click_. And how the guards at the door seemed larger, more imposing.

A hush had fallen over the crowd, panicked whispers spread through the room like an airborne illness. He felt trapped, like a sardine in a tin. Baron Valentine stood in front of him, his back towards Jaskier as he addressed his guests, “There’s been a murder in the eastern wing,” he announced, “Do not panic, that being said no one is to leave this room until the killer is found.” The crowd grew louder at that, murmurs replacing the many whispers. 

The words of the baron faded in Jaskier’s ears as he desperately tried to figure out what to do, how to make this situation any better. How to keep his audience preoccupied so he could buy time for Geralt to investigate the building. He looked around, the band stood onstage awkwardly, their faces reflecting his emotional state. His lute lay on the table, where he had discarded it moments ago. Jaskier strode over and picked it up, the familiar weight a warm comfort in his hands. The elven craftsmanship was something he had grown to know far better than any other instrument he’s had before. He strode up to the stage, the earlier taps of his shoes against wood now deafening in the quiet, high strung room. Jaskier was going to do the only thing he knew how to in a situation like this.

So he began to play. The melody was improvised, he had never attempted such a performance before. The soothing notes smooth as butter were able to capture the attention of the crowd. Soon the band snapped themselves out of their stupor and joined him, harmonizing and weaving something beautiful. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief as the tension in the room grew less thick, less stifling. Still no one danced - the time for that had now passed - instead people stood awkwardly about the room, gathered in small groups as various social cliques talked amongst themselves. He yearned to be down there, among them, but then who would be left to provide such fantastic ambience? Slowly he guided the music into a familiar ballad and his accompaniment followed suit.

-@~*^*~@-

Geralt followed the blood spatters down the hall, the clamor of servant’s cleaning slowly fading behind him. The small droplets blended seamlessly into the red carpet, were he anyone else he would have failed to notice them. But Geralt was not anyone else. The trail ended at a marble staircase but the scent of blood still lingered heavy in the air. A cold chill swept through the foyer and the torchlight caused the stairs to shimmer. He crept up them, eyes and ears alert, ready for anything to strike but apart from distant music and chatter, apart from the rats scurrying in the walls, Geralt was met with silence. His medallion hummed softly.

The stairs led up to a vast corridor, doors on each side. When he peered through the doors (wincing as their opening caused loud creaks) he was met with old bedrooms with white sheets draped over the furniture. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust revealed that they had gone unused in a long time. Geralt would not find his answers here. He continued down the hallway, opening and closing doors and turning up nothing until he reached the last one at the end of the hall. This door was painted white and was large, much larger than the ones proceeding it. He opened it and was met with a master bedroom. At the center was a queen sized bed, the posts extending until they nearly reached the ceiling and a red curtain draped around the frame above the mattress, presumably for privacy. The room was well furnished, as elaborate as the halls leading to the east wing. Dying embers illuminated the fireplace on the left side, casting dramatic shadows against the wall. Feathered ash littered the brick in front of the fireplace and Geralt approached it cautiously, kneeling down to get a closer look.

 _Letters_ , he noted realizing that large chunks remained unburned, _Someone did this in a hurry._ He cast Aard to extinguish the remaining embers and plucked a piece of paper out of the ash, careful not to burn himself.

_“My Darling Olivia,_

_I need you to take the kids and run. My employer gave me a new contract and he was not too pleased when I refused to dispatch the target. “This is your most important job yet,” he had snarled. But I refused to listen. He had said something about a prophecy that threatened to shape the face of the continent. That war and death and destruction would soon follow. That Nilfgaard would be on our heels and razing our villages if I didn’t slay her. I refused. But understand my love, even I cannot slay a child. A bright green eyed babe who’s recently lost her mother, prophecies be damned. He said there would be consequences. He mentioned you, my heart, I can only hope that this letter will reach you in time, before -”_

Geralt felt his brows knit together in confusion, the rest of the letter was cut off, only the flames knew what it held. He set it next to him and pulled out another piece of parchment.

_“Vince,_

_I was too late. When I had arrived my home was burned to ash I-”_

_“Her charred skeleton clutching close two small-”_

_“I’m going to kill the bastard next I see him. Send him straight to hell where he belongs.-”_

_“spring ball, it’ll be the perfect chance to stri-”_

_“he’ll never expect a doppler.”_

_“give the others in the brotherhood my farewells, should I fail”_

A sharp intake of breath. Geralt felt his blood run cold as he scanned those words. The other papers were burned to the point where they were incomprehensible, but he felt that he could glean what was happening with his limited information. He was dealing with a doppler, a very pissed and deadly one at that. A scream. He stood up, unsheathing his silver sword. _Fuck._

-@~*^*~@-

Jaskier was playing quite the lovely ditty when yet another blood curdling scream ripped through the crowd. Were it not for the gruesome circumstances, he would have pouted at the interruption, was his music truly that bad? His head jerked towards the source of the scream. A servant was in the crowd, lunging towards guests and slashing at them with - what the? Where her arms were meant to be there were swords. Jaskier had seen a lot in his time travelling with the witcher but this really took the cake. He and the band kept playing, albeit more panicked and frantic, stumbling over notes like a blind kitten. The woman began carving a path towards the front of the room, where Baron Valentine sat at his table with his esteemed guests. Jaskier frantically glanced at the door, hoping Geralt would magically appear but he had no such luck. She left a trail of blood and gore in her wake. The guests rushed frantically towards the exit, trampling one another in their fear. She stopped at the front of the table. Baron Valentine looked terrified but mostly confused, “Wh-Who..?”

The servant stepped forward, her shape changing with sickening crunches of bone and a tearing of flesh. In her place stood a man in his mid thirties, clad in leather armor. Jaskier couldn’t make out his face, he could only see the messy dark hair that covered the back of the man’s head. One of his arms was still a sword, Jaskier noted, though the right one had been changed to resemble more of a mallet. “You,” the doppler growled, pointing his sword arm _(swarm?)_ at Baron Valentine. The latter visibly paled at the sight of the vexling.

“Guards!” the baron squawked, “Guards?!”

The man spun around to fight off the minions Baron Valentine had summoned to his side. Soon the group seemed to take the shape of a whirling mass of steel. Clanging sounds rang through the hall amongst the panicked screams. The guards thrust their swords upwards and the shifter ducked, tearing his blade arm _(blarm?)_ through their stomachs, causing them to fall to the ground with several wet thumps. He quickly strode towards the baron, a determined look set into his gruff features. 

A loud clang rang through the now empty ballroom, as - _thank fuck finally what took so long_ \- Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf stepped in. “It doesn’t have to come to this,” he began.

The doppler looked over his shoulder and snarled, “Stay out of this, _witcher_. You know nothing of what this man has done to me, has done to my family,” his words were venomous, spat out like a curse.

Jaskier shot the witcher a pleading look from the stage as Geralt walked towards the front of the room, “You can turn back now, leave this place, create a life where men like him,” he jerked his head towards Baron Valentine, “can’t hurt you.”

“Do you intend to become yet another corpse at my feet?” the doppler sneered.

“No,” Geralt replied bluntly.

The man lunged forward, his sword arm clashing with Geralt’s silver. The two pressed into their crossed swords for a moment before jumping back, beginning a deadly dance across the room. Geralt seemed to be on the defensive, parrying the vexling’s aggressive attacks. One of the parrys slipped, causing the witcher to be slashed in the shoulder. He let out a grunt of pain and stepped backwards. The two continued this fatal tango up to the stage, the man’s back to the edge.

Jaskier’s heart stopped for a moment as Geralt’s sword was ripped out of his hand and slid across the floor. Geralt backed up, fumbling for something at his side, presumably one of his many concealed daggers. Quickly, Jaskier snatched one of the band member’s trumpets out of his hands (“Hey!” the performer had cried in protest) and raced over to the edge of the stage. The man was about to lunge forward when Jaskier bashed him over the head as hard as he could with the trumpet. The doppler crumpled to the floor and Geralt reached for his sword, stabbing him through the chest. Jaskier and Geralt were both breathless, gasping for air as the adrenaline in their veins calmed. Jaskier glanced at the front of the room, Baron Valentine’s mouth hung open, gobsmacked.

“I- Thank you, so much for saving my life I-”

“Fuck off,” Geralt growled, sheathing his sword. He offered a hand to Jaskier and helped him off the stage. The trumpet, now bloodstained, was left abandoned on the stage. “Let’s go, bard,” Geralt said, his voice a low rumble. The pair began to head out the door.

“Wait!” Baron Valentine cried, “I have to repay you somehow!”

Geralt opened his mouth, likely to say something stupid like he did in Cintra, when Jaskier cut him off, “Coin would be nice, please.”

Baron Valentine whispered something to one of his servants, who quickly returned with a small brown bag. The servant gave it to Jaskier, seeing that blood stained Geralt’s hands. The bag was of decent weight and a small shake caused the coins inside to clink together. “Thank you, my dear,” Jaskier said to the servant. Geralt grunted in kind.

-@~*^*~@-

Later that night, in the middle of a nearby forest, the two set up camp. Jaskier sat perched on a particularly large tree root and Geralt sat near Roach, tending to his weapons and armor with care.

“You know,” Jaskier began, “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbled

Jaskier strummed a cord on his lute and winced, “No, no that won’t do..” He paused a moment, as if in contemplation, “I was thinking about writing a ballad about tonight, but I don’t know what tone to set. Do you think it would be better in a major or minor key?”

Geralt hummed in response, clearly not listening.

“Tough crowd,” he joked, and searched for words to fill the silence.

“You’re wearing the pin.”

Jaskier blinked and looked down at his doublet, the buttercup pin perched near his collarbone, “Yes, I guess so. I decided to start wearing it as a good luck charm and it worked, I think.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that.

“What? I didn’t get ripped apart by that doppler, that’s lucky in my books!”

**Author's Note:**

> Skyrim Music & Ambience really does wonders for my writing, as does the 10 hour loop of the pink panther theme (which is what I was listening to when I was writing Geralt's POV). Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave Kudos and comments, I love getting feedback.  
> Edit: Fixed a spelling error that was driving me nuts.


End file.
